It's been a while

I have a few Christmas items I want to share, but right now, I want to wish you a Happy New Year.

For some, it's been the best year on record. For others, it's been less than perfect. For all, it's an opportunity to live this next year to its fullest.

Here's to a blessed 2010 filled with happiness, love and lots of learning. (and hopefully a little Burkey baby)

Cheers!

So-so ultrasound news

First things first -- Merry Christmas Eve! Here's to work going quickly, the sleet holding off and a blessed holiday with friends and family.

Well, Brent and I made it to the 9 a.m. appointment. Right before we walked in, we sat in the Tracker. I muttered a few prayers under my breath, trying to calm my anxiety. I'm still convinced my heart was trying to escape.

Ultrasound technician Tim took us back almost immediately, even though we were 10 minutes early. He asked how I was feeling, if there were any changes. I smiled and said not really. "I'm hoping for good news from you, Tim."

"Well, from your smile, I'm hoping to give that to you," he replied.

I sat in the reclined chair contraption, he squirted on the jelly and there was the baby.
With a heartbeat of 167 bpm. (Oh, thank you, God, I whispered.)

Now for the slightly disheartening part. The ugly clot is still there; it's just a radically different shape. Instead of being clumped together around the gestational sac, it's now an hourglass shape. Part is down below, which is good because it's slowly spotting out. The part is still next to the baby.

No one can tell us what that means, really. And the things it could be are endless -- more active bleeding, no extra bleeding, it's coming out, it's staying the same, etc. -- and annoying. We're still considered a high-risk pregnancy, and we're still on the wait-and-see plan. Comforting, huh?

We're about 10-and-a-half weeks right now. Our next appointment Jan. 6 -- 9:20 a.m. ultrasound, 9:45 a.m. regular ob appointment that was previously scheduled. Tim said either the clot will disappear over the next two weeks, or I will bleed out and miscarry. That's at least what usually happens.

Then again, "usual" percentages haven't been on our side in 2009, which could be a good thing. As Brent said, at least our next appointment is in 2010 and it just has to be a better year.

Twelve more hours

I've lost count of how many ultrasounds we've had so far with this pregnancy. But each is never as important as the looming one, that's for sure.

Our next one is at 9 a.m. tomorrow, Christmas Eve.

I'm prepared for the clot getting a little bigger.
I'm expecting to see that little flickering heartbeat.
I'm praying to see no clot at all.

In my heart, I know I have to be ready for the worst. We've been through it before.
But I don't know anyone in his or her right mind who can mentally plan for the death of their child.
And, so, I refuse to.

Merry Christmas, everybody

Since I'm pretty much bound to the house, Brent and I have been able to get a lot of Christmas decorations up.
It's amazing how a little bit of garland and the smell of pine can make the whole house cheery.

How great was that snowstorm?

I must admit that I didn't believe the weatherpeople. They've been wrong before, and they'll be wrong again.

Not this time! With inches of snow falling, hubby and I snuggled in for a snowday. We watched movies, baked cookies and played with puppy in the snow. She L-O-V-E-D the snowbanks. While Brent did all the heavy lifting clearing our walkway, Lucy ran up and down the streets licking the snow and plowing into snowbanks. She'd disappear, and then her little head would pop out of the pristine snow. Hilarious/

The part that knocked my boots off? We awoke Sunday morning to our next-door neighbors snowblowing our sidewalk and driveway! What wonderful neighbors we have! We're so blessed to have them.

I jumped out of bed before Mass, and quickly baked banana bread for them. It was the least I could do as they braved the wind and below-freezing temperatures!

Take a peek

The ultrasound two weeks ago was nearly perfect. (Nearly, because we still have the dumb clot.)

I am kicking myself for not asking for a printout picture, though. The baby was lying on its back, squirming away. While still in black and white, the profile of the little guy or gal was perfect. We could see the heart fluttering, the legs kicking and the hands waving.

This time, it was still a miracle to see that little bean wriggling around. However, the baby was on the side, looking inside out through my belly. We could see one arms underneath the head, and the other arm was rubbing his or her face. So sweet!

For the past bit, I've tried to scan in the photo. It's not working. Grr... I'll keep trying and hopefully post the photo later.

Delayed reaction

So, it's Sunday night, and waaaay past Thursday when we had the ultrasound. Sorry for the delay.

Tim, the ultrasound technician, greeted us with his coke-bottle glasses and weary smile, as he walked us back to the room. He squeezed the cold jelly on my tummy, and placed the doppler on top.

He found a heartbeat. A heartbeat with 171 beats per minute, which is the same as a week ago.
(VICTORY!)

But, he also found the hematoma. And a bigger hematoma at that. Turns out, it grew a centimeter.
(CRAP)

Tim told us that he's seen women with hematomas this large before. Some have made it to term, so have not. He asked if we wanted to come back in a week to check on the mass again or wait two weeks.

Brent fielded that question for me. "Next week. I don't care if it's Christmas Eve."

So ... 9 a.m. Dec. 24 it is. Praying that this little miracle continues to fight for his or her life. Praying that this stupid blood clot starts receding. Praying that we make it to July.

Going crazy much?

Multitasking. It's a beautiful art that not only lets us live life to the fullest, but also drives us crazy. The more you multitask, the more you think. The more you think, the harder your brain works. I truly think around the holidays that our brains double, even triple in size.

With all of the work, shopping, wrapping, budgeting and other verbings I'm forgetting, I believe it.

Now, hubby and I have added a baby. My body has added a subchorionic hematoma. And now my baby and hematoma are sharing my uterus. Let's just hope that ultrasound shows a smaller or no blood clot on Thursday. (Fingers, toes, legs, arns and eyeballs are crossed.)

In the meantime, I'm celebrating all of the good pregnancy symptoms (nausea, tenderness, growing pains) and cringing at the bad (crampiness). I think I'm one of the only people right now who gets excited when I feel like I'm going to vomit my jelly toast. And I'm OK with that.

The rant about the neighbor

You'll read this and go, "yeah, that's Laura." I'm not sure if that's a good thing, though.

I wanted to bring you up to speed on a past promised blog post. So, our neighbor. He's one of two people I loathe (not hate, but loathe). The German has a thick accent and has his property all buttoned up complete with lots of fences, blinds and no one ever (and I mean ever) goes outside. Another neighbor has told me that he doesn't allow his wife to drive, too. Although, that's just hearsay.

On that note, though: He has five cars. Five. And do you think they all fit in his driveway? No. 


That same neighbor who I mentioned earlier has a few bird feeders in their front yard. It's quite nice to hear the chirping, but not so nice to see blobs of white and blue poo all over my black car. Except, I don't really let that bother me.

Our German friend across the street, however, does. So, he parks three cars in his driveway, one in front of our driveway across the street and the other in front of our house. Just typing that last clause raised my blood pressure by a few ticks. He thinks he owns the neighborhood, so he can do whatever his big pot-bellied, hair-chested brain wants. (And trust me, this is no Santa Claus.)

Well, it happened. I backed out of our driveway, slid on the ice and gently tapped his disgusting Volvo. Then, panicked, I drove away. As I caught my breath, I called my husband to own up to what happened. It appeared that I had woken the cops reporter in him, and he got upset.

"Do you know you could be charged with a hit and run?"

Whoops. Luckily, he quickly scribbled a note and ran outside to drop the note at the scene of the crime. (Phew, disaster and jail time averted.)

Now, I just wait for our rates to go up. In the meantime, I'm parking in his spot.

Our ultrasound that melted my heart

We only got to see Morgan alive at six weeks, four days. When we saw this child, he or she is about nine weeks and so much bigger! It was unreal. When Brent and I headed to the ultrasound room, the tech zoomed in on our little one.

The baby was furiously kicking her legs and moving her arms, almost like she was waving to us! Then, all of a sudden, the baby bounced. I kid you not. The baby scrunched up and bounded upward.

What a miracle. What an incredible site to see this child doing this. (I think she gets her moves from me.)

When I was talking to a friend about this, she goes, "Well, you have a fighter in there." She couldn't be more correct. After all, this baby is a Randisi/Burkey. Did I expect anything less? And this baby is fighting for his or her life, so there's no way in hell I'm giving up on him.

No more sadness. No more downtrodden, what-if thoughts. God will take care of this child. And we will greet him or her with open arms in July 2010.

The midwife steps up

"Hi, I'm Felicia, and I'll be your midwife today."

Stealing a look toward Brent, I rolled my eyes. I don't want to see a midwife. I want a D-O-C-T-O-R. I turned off my disgruntled expression, as she looked up from my chart. She asked me to explain what happened the night before in detail, asked if I was still bleeding (yes) and then walked over to me.

She took a look and explained that my cervix was never indeed open, and I was never dilated. It's a common mistake that ER doctors make in their hasty peek since they're not used to that sort of thing everyday. (great)

Felicia explained a little about what happened, what a subchorionic hematoma is and reassuringly said that my uterus felt the right size for around nine weeks! (The hematoma is when blood vessels break when the baby is implanting. If it blocks the area where the baby switches from the yolk sac and grabs onto the placenta, a miscarriage occurs.)

Then, Felicia said she'd make a deal with me. Using a doppler, she thought she'd be able to find the baby's heartbeat. BUT, if she was unable, I had to promise not to get distraught. I hesitantly looked at her and said, "I'm a little fragile to say the least right now. But I'd like you to try."

Brent shot me an incredulous glance. We had previously decided not to listen only because we didn't want to add more worry to the situation than already existed. I just had a feeling that she'd find it though.

Within 10 seconds, we heard the glorious lub-dubs coming from my belly. It was in the 170s. Perfect. I grabbed for Brent's hand, and we tearfully smiled at each other. Soon after I was dressed, we were sent downstairs to the ultrasound room. The technician, Tim, wanted to get a baseline for the hematoma. (He didn't trust the ER's reports, and that was fine by me.)

The unfortunate part was that the hematoma had gotten bigger from the night before, so it's a little more worrisome now. He said if it gets any bigger, a miscarriage is most likely imminent. So, now it's bed rest for me. No lifting, no walking, no running, no nothing. And that's fine by me because it's about our baby now.

And now we're officially considered a high-risk pregnancy. So, we will need weekly ultrasounds to monitor things. On the up side, we'll get to see our little one more than ever now! Every Thursday, we'll make sure that heart is fluttering away.

We arrived to the official appointment

On Thursday morning, we arrived at the doctor's office still bleary-eyed and depressed about the night before. The nurse cheerfully brought us into her office to give us the rundown on prenatal care, the cost and jot down our family histories. She said congratulations and asked us if this was planned.

I looked at Brent, eyes wider than my face. As the nurse waited for an answer, I turned back to her overly happy face and her lipstick-stained teeth.

"Are you kidding me?" I asked. "What is going on? We were in the ER last night, and now we're having a conversation about a baby that might or might not still be alive inside of me. I need you to help me!"

Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I started shaking all over again. (Then, I just felt badly for the unsuspecting victim of my stress.) She fumbled for the mouse and clicked away trying to find my charts from the emergency room.

"Looks like everything is fine," she cautiously said, as she looked up from her keyboard. "You have a subchorionic hematoma, but the baby is OK."

Then, Brent teared up. WHAT?  (OK, breathe.)

She finished up the paperwork with us, threw a bunch of freebies into a canvas bag and ushered us into the officially appointment. At the end, all she good stammer was a "good luck."

Luck? After this crappy year, we're going to need more than luck.

Catching up since the last post

I just re-read the last blog post about our first appointment. Unfortunately, a lot happened 12 hours before we even got there.

It all started with a snow/ice storm that led to me sliding into our jerk neighbor's Volvo, which he parks in front of our driveway. (More of a rant on that later. Trust me, I have lots to say.)

A half-hour into a friend's birthday celebration at a local restaurant, I realized I was bleeding. I won't go into the horrid details, but I began hemorrhaging. I (in hindsight stupidly) drove myself to the hospital with Brent on the cell phone trying to calm me down. That's all we'd need is me getting into an accident on top of everything.

After tests and taking blood and more tests, I was wheeled into an ultrasound room for a sonagram. Expecting that I had lost our child, the technician suddenly told us we had a fetus with a heart beating at 174 beats per minute.

What?

You have a baby with a heartbeat.

After six hours in the emergency room, the ER doctor gave me discharge papers. Confused? Yeah, so were we. He told me to go home, relax and go the scheduled appointment the next morning. This was after that same man told us I passed the baby, I was dilated and hemorrhaging. You can imagine our disbelief.

In bed that night, all we could do was pray.

The first doctor appointment

Thursday morning we head to the doctor for the same appointment that we actually made it to with Morgan. It's the one where the nurse practitioner asks a million and one questions in her cushy office.

Do you smoke? Do you drink? Do you have depression? Do any of these 3,000 diseases listed here run in your family?

Then comes the fun part, though. We get all sorts of baby magazines, freebies, products to try and a ton of paperwork. Thank goodness they give you a canvas tote bag to bring it all home. Now, we did receive all of this with Morgan, but I threw all of the freebies and information out in a fit of fury. (Whoops)

After the chat, the doctor takes a look and so begins the question-and-answer session. This poor doctor has no idea what's going hit her when I get in there. Couple being a naturally inquisitive journalist with a past of a miscarriage ...

It's arrived!

We are officially grown-ups.

No, graduating from college,
moving out on my own to another state,
heading to the altar and
now pregnancy has not achieved this status.

Our queen-sized headboard makes us grown-ups.

After waiting five weeks and logging plenty of phone calls to Sleep Mattress (don't go there), it came in! I'll put up another photo of it actually on the bed, but here is what it looks like.

It's Chester Heaboard in Creme Brulee Finish. Maybe we were just hungry when we bought it.

Something in common

After the doctor said to take it easy until we make it to 12 weeks, I've (unfortunately) been sucked into reality television. I know, I know. I should be reading ("The Man Who Was Thursday," for example), but sometimes it's more fun to lose yourself in trashy TV.

Enter the Real Housewives of New Jersey. As soon as I wrote that hour of my life as lost forever, one of the women talked about having five miscarriages.

Since that episode, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Read about it here.

(And please tell me I'm not the only Bravo fan here.)

Turning the focus to hubby

Lately, hubby has been more than sick. We're still not sure if it was a really mean bug or if it's stress-related. (Although, I have a feeling it's the latter.)

As he sat on the table, the doctor asked him to talk a little about what's going on. Where to start? Could it be all of the breaking news on the manufacturing beat? Or the miscarriage in September? Maybe the situation we're in right now with our second child?

Nah, it's probably the just the impending holidays.

Sending feel-better vibes Brent's way.

Losing my mind

I knew having  -- or better trying for -- a baby would be an anxiety-ridden experience. But, I didn't know I signed for all that has happened. I am ready now. I'm prepared for the worst, I'm praying for the best and I know I'll survive. What's that saying? What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.

Back to my point -- the doctor put me on restrictions. He didn't necessarily say I'm a high-risk patient, but that I'm "somebody to watch." What does this mean?

No shopping.
No carrying heavy bags.
No lifting.
No running.
No excessive movement.
No working out.

And now, folks, I am losing my mind. I literally think my arm fat has doubled. And, I am not known to exaggerate.(I don't think.)

Looks like Brent has Lucy-walking duties, and presents will be bought online this year.

It's all OK ... for now

On our way south from Berrysburg, I called the emergency number. The same doctor we've been meeting with the past few times was on-call. Thank goodness.

He returned my phone call asking why the heck was I calling him? I explained the problem and that the bleeding had pretty much stopped by now. He sighed. I couldn't interpret what that meant. He told me to call the office tomorrow and schedule another ultrasound.

"Laura, if it gets worse, and I know you know the drill by now, call me back." (Not the words I wanted to hear exactly.) "Stay off your feet and relax, you hear?"

Brent and I were in store for another sleepless night.

The appointment was at 2:10 p.m. Friday. Nervously, I spouted prayers from heart as we drove to the office. As we walked in hand-in-hand, the sun came out for a split second. I took it as a sign. I need it to be a sign.

The same technician who told us about Morgan's passing called my name to come back. Crap, I thought to myself. This guy is bad luck. I want the woman who gave us the good news on Wednesday. Where is she???

I laid back in the unforgettable brown fake-leather chair. He pulled out the jelly as I lifted up my sweater slightly. Brent took his position to my right squeezing the feeling from the left hand.

Technician: "There's the egg sac."
Laura: "And there's no baby, right?"
T: "Wait a minute. Here's the baby ..."
L: "With no heartbeat, right?"
T: "... and there's the little heartbeat going about 128 beats per minute."

He said there's really no explanation of why the red bleeding occurred. But, he said, there is a 2 percent chance of having a miscarriage after seeing the baby's heartbeat on the ultrasound. My eleation subsided. So ... that's what happened with Morgan? We saw the heartbeat at six weeks, four days. The baby died at eight weeks, six days.

He just told us our baby is six weeks, four days. My heart sank a little more. He said that the first objective was to make it past the point of the miscarriage. And the second, to make it to the second trimester.

Is it possible that we've used up all of our blessings and good luck? For the sake of this child, I pray not.

Still breathing: Part II

After the harrowing rollercoaster Wednesday morning, we thought we'd step off the platform and head to Berrysburg for a little Thanksgiving festivities. After two hours of traffic and a quick detour of sorts, we arrived just in time for dinner and with great news for my in-laws.

Thursday morning started off with the boys going hunting for small game, and Sally and I preparing the feast. It went off without a hitch, and we even took a little time out to watch the Macy's Day Parade.

The guys returned windblown and satisfied, and Brent's Ma and Marlin arrived 45 minutes early. (We expected them at 12:30 p.m.) I called my family at 3 to see how the Randisi Thanksgiving was without their favorite daughter. (Turns out, they were fine. Ha!)

I quickly ran to the bathroom ... and my holiday happiness came to a screeching hault. Blood. Red blood. A lot of it. The kind that the docs tell you is fatal. I nearly lost conciousness. Everything was fine yesterday. Everything. The baby's heart was beating 130 beats per minute, the ultrasound looked normal. What is going on?!

I called for Brent as evenly as I could, but he sprinted up the stairs, his eyes wild with worry. He took one look at my face, packed everything up including the dog. We said quick good-byes and hurried out the door destined for York.

Please don't let this be the same fate as Morgan. Please.

Deep breath followed by a deep breath followed by ...

I have a lot to catch you up on, but I have no idea where to start. How about I'll take on a made-for-TV-movie journey? It has its ups, its downs and I'm sure I could add a little sappy music into the mix.

First things first, let's shout the happy news. We're nearly seven weeks pregnant!! But the last five days have been the most nerve-wracking. Now, that you know the story has a happy ending ...

Starting chronologically:
Monday night:
I have a little bit of spotting.
Tuesday morning:
8 a.m.: I call the practice. The nurse tells me to get a blood test to measure the hcG level, aka the pregnancy hormone. She says to call back by 3 p.m., and they'll have the results.
9 a.m.: I arrive at work sick to my stomach with worry.
3 p.m.: I call for the results. Seems they aren't in yet, so I am told to call back at 4.
4 p.m: An hour later, still no results. Call back in a hour, they say.
5 p.m.: Nope. They ask for my phone number, so they can call me when it's in. The practice closes at 5:30 p.m.
5:25 p.m.: My phone rings. The results? 805,521. Nearly four times the normal amount. The nurse is breathless on the phone saying she's never seen numbers this high. (Great.) I ask if I should be worried? She said no, it means that I must have more than one baby. (Phew) She says she'll forward the results to the doctors, and I'll get a call by 2 p.m.
7:30 p.m.: The head of the practice's nuse calls. They're worried. That number is too high, she says. It means only one thing -- a molar pregnancy. She tells me to come in at 10:50 a.m. Wednesday for an emergency ultrasound. From there, they will decide when to administer the chemo. (CHEMO?!?)
7:35 p.m.: I jump on the computer and Google molar pregnancy. Read here for the horrifying results. (Think miscarriage, cancer, chemotherapy, no more trying for a baby for at least a year. My worst nightmare.)
Wednesday:
8 a.m.: Arrive at work terrified, but in need of putting the magazine to bed.
10:55 a.m.: Brent and I are called back for the dreaded ultrasound. We enter the same room, where we were a little more than two months ago and saw Morgan was dead.
11 a.m.: The technician tells us the baby is healthy, the placenta is healthy, the ovaries are healthy and THERE'S NO MOLAR PREGNANCY!!

I think Brent and I nearly fainted from the good news. After meeting with the doctor, he goes over the possibilities: Either there's a partial molar pregnancy undetectable on ultrasound or there was a lab error. He says that if it's the former, we'd need to meet with a maternal and fetal specialist as well as a cancer doctor so he can immediately begin administering chemotherapy. In the back of my head, I thought to myself that we just saw a healthy baby and there's no way I'm terminating the healthy baby.

2 p.m.: The doctor calls. The lab results were wrong. My level is at 30,000. I asked her to repeat that. There was a gross error at the lab. (Ya think?)

I've never thanked God more in my life. And the adventure wasn't over there. Stay tuned.

Fatherhood just comes instinctively

Never thought I'd enjoy visiting a graveyard. All of the superstitious ghost tales and creepy ghouls hanging around. At least, that's just one scenario that played out in my head.

That was all before we lost Morgan, though.

After Mass, Brent and I visited our little angel in heaven. It was a beautiful Sunday with the sun shining on our backs and the birds chirping in the trees. Tears still well up when I look at the beautiful grave, but it's strangely comforting, too.

Want to know the part that really choked me up? We were standing side-by-side, staring down at the plaque. I was silently saying a prayer, when Brent starts walking toward the car. He mumbled something as he stepped over the other graves, but I was too absorbed in talking to Morgan to hear him.

He returns with a bottle of water from the car and pulls a crumbled paper towel from his jacket pocket. Gently kneeling beside Morgan, Brent began to wipe the mud and grass away from the grave.

A father taking care of his child ...

I hugged him, we kissed Morgan's grave and headed home to our puppy.

Ahh.. the sweet smell of paint

It seems like I have caught every cold and flu bug so far this season. And it's only November.

In other news, I finally tackled our bedroom this weekend. The dingy white walls have been traded in for apple, as in green apple. Two coats later, and the room actually looks quite spiffy. But why is it that home-improvement projects are always more complicated than originally planned?

The painting went swimmingly, but I guess I just couldn't contain my excited brush and roller strokes. Because, I also splashed Apple on the windows, the window panes, the hardwood floors and the ceiling. Nothing a little white can't cover, right?

Right. Except, the white paint found in our garage is different from the white paint in the room. Soooo... now the room has fresh trim and windows. (I'm ignoring the ceiling. Who looks up when they enter a room anyway?)

PS. The picture definitely does not do it justice. You'll just have to stop by to see it :)

To get the vaccine or not to get the vaccine?

I've been reading up on the famous swine flu vaccine lately. (Mostly because I'm a journalist, and there are stories literally everywhere about it.) Those in the high-risk groups - children, pregnant women, elderly - are required to get the shot. If I were pregnant, I don't know if I'd get it.

Most stories I've heard about the normal flu vaccine is that those people end up catching that same strain. The coughing, the aches, the vomiting. I've never gotten a flu vaccine before, and I think I'd rather just keep taking my chances.

The funny thing is at my women's healthcare center, you have to "pregnant enough" to get the H1N1 vaccine. What does that mean? You have to be in your third trimester. So, I guess all of those news reports should start qualifying which pregnant women are in the high-risk group.

Anyway, here's an article I read about the vaccine's link to miscarriages. I must admit that I did think about that, so I did seek out the information. Here's another article by Boston Family Life.

What do you think? Would you get it, or just take your chances?

Fame comes in all shapes and sizes

As you already know, my dad is involved with the Gabriel Network, which helps homeless women choose life for their unborn child. Well, the organization is opening a new maternity home in Baltimore city. Volunteers have come out of the woodwork literally to clean, organize, paint and otherwise fix up this purchased home to make it suitable for moms-to-be in the coming months.

My dad is more of a behind-the-scenes kind of person. Well, he also got down and dirty the other day. And the Catholic Review (Baltimore's version of our Catholic Witness publication) caught it all in print. Read the story here, and check it out below.

Did you know curiosity killed the cat?

Lucy and I were on a walk the other day around our neighborhood. There's a family who lives down the block with three children and a pit-bull/boxer mix puppy named Sirus. Let me tell you, they are one of our favorite neighbors.

As we passed their house, the mom, dad and their youngest daughter, Rachel, were outside raking leaves. Although, they didn't seem to making much progress given the huge maple trees on their property.

We got to talking, and the dad asked if Brent and I had any children.
"Uh, no," I said caught off-guard.
"Oh, do you want kids?" he asked
"Yes, definitely." I racked my brain, trying to change the subject. Question. Think of a question. "So, where do you work?"
-- No dice. He was like a dog with a bone. --
"Why don't you have kids now, then?" He was just staring at me leaning carelessly against his rake. I blankly stared back with anxiety sliding into chest.
"Well," I said as I cleared my throat, "we lost our first child not too long ago, so ... " I trailed off.
Without missing a beat, he replied, "You're not going to stop, are you? Keep trying."

I smiled. Here's this nosy neighbor giving me baby-making advice. Awesome.

"Laura, wanna know the best way to have a baby?" (Not really, I thought to myself.) "Have someone get laid off, fall behind on your bills and rack up credit card debt. That's how we had three kids."

So, here's to having a baby. And I thought buying a house was diving into enough debt.

Calling all husbands and wives

I follow a few miscarriage blogs by women in the throes of sadness or venturing into the let's-try-again realm. Anyway, I saw this story about increasing a man's fertility. Read it here. (Warning: Might be too much information.)

On another note, there are tons of information in the .com world that offer tips to conceiving. My one girlfriend seems to have read all of those tips, and she's bringing me up to speed. (Although, getting pregnant wasn't really our problem. I wish there were fail-safe ways to keep a child.)

Tips for MEN:

•  Keep laptops off your laps while working to avoid the heat produced by the computer.
• Put the tightie-whities away and opt for boxers or boxer briefs.  
• Kick the cigarrette habit, not only for yourself, but for your family.

 Tips for WOMEN:

• Start taking folic acid now. Many women's vitamins already contain it, but check the label. Folic acid is thought to help defend against neural tube defect.
• Slowly wean yourself off caffeine, as it can cause harmful effects to a growing baby. (Honestly, I stopped drinking my daily Diet Coke because my taste buds changed. The bubbles give me heartburn.)
• Some women monitor their ovulation, but taking their basal temperature everyday before rising from bed. Your temperature rises about .5 degrees when you ovulate. (I never tried this, but my girlfriend swears by it.)

For BOTH:

• Exercise at least three or four times a week. 
• Eat healthy. That means picking up more fruits and veggies, and less chips. (Definitely a toughie in the Burkey household.)
• Make love every other day during your fertile period. That is usually eight days after the first day of your period and continues for about seven to 10 days, depending on the length of your cycle. 
• Don't obsess. I think when couples are trying to conceive, it's easy to fall into robot-mode. TTC shouldn't suck the fun out of the adventure.
  

P-A-R-T-Y? Because Tom's engaged!

Not sure if I mentioned this before, but my littler brother's engaged. Can you believe it? Hit bit the bullet and is officially off the market. I know, I know, ladies. Yes, he's quite attractive (creepy to write), but he's picked his flower from the fields.

And Saturday night we painted the town red. As in red wine, that is. Tom and Jess' engagement party was at Cafe Troia in Towson. Mom and Dad pulled out all the stops (after all, if it's worth doing, do it right!). Brent and I arrived early to steal a little one-on-one time with the fam. Soon, her family trickled into the beautiful restaurant. And, then the volume rose as my family piled in. We feasted on butterfly lambchops, the largest shrimp I've seen on a stick, crabballs (did you expect anything less?) and, of course, wine. Brent's favorite was actually the Italian beer. (I'll have to remember that one.)

My dad gave his welcome speech (he's known for his words), and then we played this great ice-breaker game. It sounds a little corny, but bear with me.

Mom and Dad put one fact about each person in attendance. Then, the index cards were divvied up. Jess' family members had facts about us, and we, them. The object of the exercise was to find the person who was on your card. It was hilarious. I think some people there didn't even know the fact was about them. (Present company included. Oops.)

Anyway, we rolled home to the Burkey household around 11:30 that night -- bellies full and faces hurting from the laughing. It's refreshing to celebrate good news lately. Cheers!

Isn't that obvious?

Here's just a quick post from a link I found.
Did you know that traffic pollution can lead to a miscarriage? Yeah, I thought you did.

But this article is based on scientific fact with smarty-pants know-it-alls who spent lots of time and money figuring it out. Maybe, that's a little harsh.

One thing I did find interesting:

The study, which included 400 women having IVF treatment in Brazil, found that those who became pregnant in winter, when pollution levels are particularly high, were twice as likely to miscarry in the first eight weeks as those who conceived at other times of the year.

My main problem is that most miscarriages occur in the first eight weeks any time of the year. Sure, Morgan passed away at nine weeks, but that's close enough. And the study was based in fertility treatments of 400 women. Wouldn't you expect a little more info? 

... and my second impression

Just to give you an idea of how the rest of the Mass went on All Souls Day, roughly 75 names were read aloud and 40 families were there from the parish. As each name was called, a family member could come to the front of the church where a single yellow rose was given to them.

Morgan's name was toward the end of the list. And even though I followed along on the program, when the name was read aloud, my heart dropped.

 "Morgan Ashland Burkey."

Brent and I stood up, walked hand-in-hand to Fr. Louis. I kept my eyes steady on the flower, hoping to strangle the sobs rising in my chest. Then, the priest shook our hands, looked deep into our eyes and said, "Peace be with both of you." It seems cliche to read it now, but if you would have heard his voice, you would know that each person's death put a chink in his armour, too.

My Mom and Dad, who have been my other rocks, sat next to us in the pew. As we plopped back down, Mom looked at me with a huge smile and said, "That's the best rose. It's the biggest!" As tears rolled down our faces, I looked back and told her that it's only the best for Morgan!

Isn't that the truth? For children, no matter how old or young or well-behaved, they always deserve the best. And I simply can't wait for that chance.

First impressions of All Souls Day

All Souls Day was more beautiful than I had imagined. Since I've never been to that Mass before, I'm not really sure what I imagined. Probably a bunch of sadsacks sitting in the pews more out of obligation than purpose.

Instead it was a church full of believers who never knew their lives would intertwine with the others in the pews, who never realized the depths of despair had so much company. Father Louis, St. Joe's pastor, opened his homily with an admission of speechlessness. What could he say? He's happy to be celebrating a Mass that scratches open pussing wounds? Instead he touched generally on the lives of those who passed from November 2008 to November 2009. Some were grandparents who had lived life to the fullest, others were parents who had passed on their wisdom to their adult children, a few were accidental deaths where relatives were ripped suddenly from this Earth. And then ... then he talked about children. And in particular one innocent infant who never took his first breath. He spoke of Morgan. My Morgan. 

A sticky ball of twine lodged in my throat. I just kept swallowing and breathing and swallowing. The cactus-like lump wouldn't budge. Until, my wonderful husband snatched my hand and tightly squished my shaking fingers into his warm palm.

Fr. Louis spoke about Jesus' love and how we might not be able to have those people returned to us, but we can ask for understanding from Him. Love? How could I love when my heart has hardened? But then I remembered that some day I will hold Morgan. And in the meantime, our child is watching over us. Strange perhaps, but it gives me comfort knowing he is near.

All Souls Day for Morgan

Sunday was All Saints Day, and today is All Souls Day.

St. Joseph Church sent Brent and I an invitation to remember and celebrate the life of "Infant Burkey."
(I guess they hadn't seen that we named our first child together.)

At 7 tonight, there's a Mass that will honor all of those who have left this world too soon in the past year. And all of the names will be read aloud.

When we received the invitation, we immediately responded saying the parents of Morgan Ashland Burkey will be in attendance.
The parents.
The mom and dad.
Morgan's mommy and daddy.

When that name is spoken in prayer from the pulpit, well, I'm just not sure if I'll hold up.

It's not fair. It's just not FAIR. And I still don't get it. I don't get the point. I don't get the reason. And sometimes I just don't care to know that reason or reasons. Because it doesn't bring my child back to me. It doesn't.

Happy Halloween!

There are amazing costumes at work today. It's pretty funny to think of the creativity contained in this box all day -- Flo from Progressive, the Balloon Boy, the money you could be saving at Geico, the H1N1 virus, everything but the kitchen sink -- I could go on and on and on.

The excitement (and sugar) have pretty much bumped everybody into the stratosphere. And, soon, we'll all come crashing down.

Among all of the laughs, my heart stings just a little. This Halloween, I was going to go as a pumpkin or a Sigourni Weaver from Aliens. I thought I'd have a nice little baby bump by now.

Why do song lyrics always say it best?

Journalists are always looking for the catchiest, most creative way to tell a story or paint a picture all the while remaining objective and accurate. So, why is it that songs always seem to say it best? Maybe it's the fogginess of the backbeat or the strums of the guitar that trick your brain into hearing things that aren't really in the songs.

Yeah, sounds a little psychedelic, I know. Think about it. It's why certain songs speak more to your soul or pull dance moves from your feet. It's why someone's heartache becomes your favorite song.

In that same vein, I'm a Dave Matthews Band fan. You either hate 'em or you love 'em. DMB's new album "Big Whiskey and the Groo Grux King" has one song that causes tears to leap into my eyes every time. The song isn't about a miscarriage or anything remotely close, but the words said what my heart won't. First, there's a story I must confess before you read the words, however.

I had a dream the night Morgan passed away. I didn't realize it at the time, but looking back in my pregnancy journal, I know the exact moment. As I naively slept, I dreamt a baby kissed me on my right cheek, right below my cheekbone. She kissed me and then smiled the most comforting and peaceful grin you've ever seen. As I turned my head to the right to try to understand, I noticed the infant had soft, white wings. Slowly, the baby rose into the sky, smiling that same grin with the bluest of eyes just looking back at me. Morgan Ashland truly is our little angel in heaven.

 

"Baby Blue" (Fast foward through the first 30 seconds)

Confess your kiss still knocks me off my legs
First time I saw you was like a punch right through my chest
I will forever because you'll forever be
My one true broken heart pieces inside of me


And you forever my baby

You will rest your head, your strength wants saving
And when you wake you will fly away
Holding tight to the legs of all your angels
Goodbye my love into your blue blue eyes in your blue blue world


You're my baby blue

Confess not quite ready to be left
Still I know I gave my level best
You give, you give, to this I can attest
You made me, you made me, you and me forever baby


You will rest your head, your strength wants saving
And when you wake, you will fly away
Holding tight to the legs of all your angels
Goodbye my love into your blue blue eyes in your blue blue world

You and me forever

A wet whirland worth more than the world

Our journey to New York City was one of the best family moments. My family -- the original four -- has visited many places in the country from Seattle to Las Vegas to Maine to Florida. This trip was different with two new faces, but the weekend was even more of a blast.

The itinerary:

We arrived in the city around 1 p.m. after getting let's just say a little lost.

We settled into our smack-in-the-middle balcony seats around 1:30 p.m., and the lights dimmed at 2. After an amazing Broadway show (seriously, you must see "Wicked"), we walked to the Hotel Edison (albeit in a round-about way).

No familiar with this famous building? You must not be Italian, or more specific Sicilian. It's from a scene in "The Godfather" when Luca Brasi meets up with Virgil Sollozzo. See, my parents were in New York a bit ago and they stumbled upon this hotel. As my dad walked up the stairs, he turns to mom and says something along the lines of "I think this is where Luca Brasi was in 'The Godfather.'" (He was right.)

After our historical movie moment, we grabbed an SUV cab to the Tavern on the Green. On a side note, the cab driver definitely jumped out of his driver's seat to yell at a soaking wet tourist who walked in front of his car with his broked umbrella. "You stuuupid, idiiiiiat! You not see da green light? You colablind? You stuuupid idiiiiant!"

Fast-forwarding to dinner, Tom and Jess asked Brent and I to be a groomsman and bridesmaid in their upcoming July 24 nuptials. We couldn't be happier.
After a wet walk back to the Hotel Beacon, we lugged our bags into our rooms. (The rooms weren't ready when we arrived before the play.)
Then, headed to The Dead Poet for a nightcap. By midnight, we were cooked and a little tipsy.

I awoke early determined to go for a run in Central Park, despite a dull headache. After 45 minutes and a brush with death (darn New York drivers), I realized the beautiful NYC Greenway never led me to my destination. I did, however, see a beautiful sunrise along the Hudson. All was definitely not lost. We made noon Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral (beautiful), and toured midtown enjoying the sunshine.

Like I said, a beautiful, whirlwind of a trip. I think the best part was riding in the car with my parents, though. Dorky? Perhaps. Maybe now that I'm 27, I can actually admit that I like, in fact love, my mom and dad. (Don't tell the 16-year-old Laura, though. She wouldn't believe you anyhow.)

An apple day ...

We're taking a bite out of the Big Apple this weekend and trekking to bustling New York City. That's right, folks, it's about time we add a little culture to our lives.

The six of us -- Mom, Dad, Tommy, Jess, Brent and I -- are leaving before dawn from Baltimore to catch Broadway play "Wicked." In celebration of Mom and Dad's 33rd anniversary, they are taking us for a weekend away. (Yeah, I know. Don't think about that too hard. Tom and I are least springing for dinner.)

After our jaunt to Broadway,  we're heading to Tavern on the Green, which is the famous restaurant near Central Park. We'll sit beneath the glistening chandeliers and clink our glasses to love and good fortune. (Warning: Sliding into "The Godfather" realms.)

When our bellies are full and minds a-buzzing, we'll grab a stool at The Dead Poet. I'll be in bookworm heaven.

I never wanted to be the expert

I would consider myself an optimist. I try to think the best about people and situations. And compared to hubby, I'm an eternal optimist! (But, I guess you'd have to know how he can be a sour sam sometimes.)

However, ever since losing Morgan, I think the worst about those closest to me. It's the oddest hole in the pit of stomach that I can't shake. I actually find myself exploring deeper into the caverns of my soul. The places that people don't talk about. The places I wouldn't dare travel to ... until now.

Does that happen to anyone else? I almost feel depressingly freakish to admit it.

Here's an example: Brent drove to Pulaski, N.Y., for his yearly salmon fishing trip. I can't tell you how many times I had horrid images scroll through my brain all ending with him dead -- car crash, swept away down the river, carbon monoxide poisoning in the much-to-be-desired trailer he stayed in.

Ridiculousness.

The interesting part that I am still trying to grasp was the emotions that followed. I was completely calm. I thought about what I would do and say, how I would handle arrangements, where I'd go and the list went on. Then, out of the blue, I'd snap out of it and scold myself for thinking so morbidly.

I'm hoping this is just a side effect (if you will) of planning Morgan's funeral. The only other death that rocked me to my core was my Poppo's, and I was in eighth grade. I was there when he passed away, but I played no part in the preparations.

Maybe now I feel like I'm an expert on funerals, educating people on the existence of baby cemeteries, plaques and prayers. The thing is ... it's one area in which I never wanted to know everything. The silent loneliness, the unspeakable sorrow, the cloak of darkness that I can't remove.

You tell me that's not a miracle

There are so many charities in this world, it's amazing how helpful thousands of people can be. From all-things cancer to homeless outreach to support groups, there is nearly something for everyone out there. It's the ability to get behind -- and I mean really get behind -- one cause that proves to be the most challenging.

I learned that this weekend.

On Saturday, I participated in the 5K run/walk for life, benefiting the Gabriel Network.* The mission of the organization is to "support women in their decision to choose life for their unborn children by providing programs and services, through Christian friendship, within a community of faith." (Notice it's not all about being Catholic or Protestant or Luthern or ...) Gabriel Network is an ecumenical, pro-life organization that gives shelter, food and guidance to women who are embarking on an unbelievable journey. The slogan is "Nothing is Impossible with God."

I have known about GN for a few years, but I never truly realized the scope of its actions. *Disclaimer: My dad is the current president of the organization. The admirable thing about my dad is that he never preached about his efforts, only invited us to see what it was all about. On Saturday, I volunteered at 7:30 in the morning and then ran in the cross-country course in the rain and mud and cold.

I never had more fun. These people, these volunteers, poured their hearts into this effort because they know that it's God's plan at work. A little background: A few months ago the organization was about to declare bankruptcy. They had three houses where pregnant women lived, and all three houses were going to close, throwing this women onto the streets. Anonymously, thousands of dollars were donated. Now, GN has five houses and is looking to extend their programs to include minors.

You tell me that's not a miracle at work. I've ran plenty of charitable races, but this one holds a spot close to my heart.

Acceptance and understanding can't be overrated

In the midst of despair and searching for some sort of virutal community, I discovered the Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss Blog Directory. It's a blog of sorts that basically aggregates other people's blogs that tell similar tales of fear, anxiety and the ultimate loss.

After reading several of the blogs, I realized that there was hope and happiness after burying a child. These blogs spoke of unimaginable loss. The same loss that camped out in my heart. The same fear that strangled my soul.

To my surprise, these same online journals revealed other secrets that I haven't yet experienced -- new life. These couples grow to have a family. Still, I'm stuck in the world with people such as God's Plan Not Mine and Empty Arms Open Heart.

But, hey, maybe I can help just one person cope better, breathe better, live better. The keepers of the directory added me to its list. And I couldn't be happier. Here's to all of the men and women who have suffered the same nightmare. The situations might not be the same, but the raw emotions are.

So grateful for the little things

Yesterday was National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and boy was that an emotional rollercoaster. Work skipped by with a hop and jump, and before I knew it, 7 p.m. rolled around. Brent and I lit two candles for Morgan (one from each of us). We said a few prayers and told Morgan how much we missed that little body.

Tears welled up and spilled over like Niagra Falls. Again.
Sobs wracked our bodies. Again.
And hopelessness crept into our hearts. Again.

But it was the phone call from Mom, sharing that she lit two candles at Chapel for our little one (one from each of my parents). And the gloom seemed to dissipate a little. Shortly after, a text message beeped through on my phone. I shuffled over, and then I saw it.

Someone who has grown to become one of my best friends texted a photo of her candle burning for Morgan with the simple words: "That's my candle. I love you."

I smiled to myself as I realized that Morgan might have only been with us for nine weeks, but that baby has already touched more lives than I ever knew possible.

I love you.

Happy angelversary to my little one

October 15th is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance day. At 7 p.m. Thursday in ALL time zones all over the world, parents will be lighting a candle for their lost ones. They'll leave it burning for an hour, causing a Wave of Light in remembrance of our wee ones. It's a time to remember our little life, not our little loss.

Your light will always burn brightly in my heart, my little angel. And to all my friends and family, if you could a light a candle for our child and all of the children who have gone before us.

Our little Burkey baby

I must send you a thank you;
Because I’m not quite sure you know;
It’s the best eight weeks and six days;
That Daddy and I have ever known.

We dreamed about your future;
We fought about your name;
We planned and planned for your arrival;
But you never came.

We never saw your smiling face;
We never heard you cry;
We never got to snuggle you close;
Instead we felt you die.

Our pain is just too much to handle;
Our loneliness too great;
Someday we know that we will meet you;
For now, we have to wait.

We’ll hold onto your memory;
Our peek inside my womb;
We watched you move and heard your heart;
We thought we’d see you soon.

You kissed my cheek to say farewell;
Our first and last embrace;
How lucky we are to have had this time;
Even if for only a trace.

Our little angel, in heaven you sit;
Above our heads and clouds and sky;
We know you’re safe from all of sin;
We wish we simply knew why.

Please know that you are always ours;
Our little Burkey baby;
We miss you, we love you, we’ll hold you soon;
Our little Burkey baby.

Seems the fog has returned

I've really been doing well with losing Morgan. Really. I'm passed the point of wanting to off myself. I'm over the whole poor-me attitude where I loathe all pregnant women everywhere.

But my brain still doesn't want to work at full capacity despite my pleading and begging. The projects at work are mounting, the meetings are endless. I can focus for about a half-hour, but then it's back to la-la land for Burkey's brain.

What is it? I know I miss my baby. I know I can't hold my baby. But I also I know that someday I will get that chance with little Morgan. And I want a chance to raise my own children here on Earth, but what if that just isn't in the cards?

As a friend so intuitively said today: "The thing of it is, worrying or not worrying will not stop bad things from happening. In the meantime, you're spending the between moments filled with all that fear and angst. The other thing is, worrying or not worrying will not stop good things from happening either. There are so many things outside of your control, you have to leave it up to God -- and I know you have faith in him and I don't think he'll let you and Brent down without reason."

I couldn't have said it better myself. Now, it's just convincing myself that it's true.

I'm glad I'm not her

Here's one story marrying Twitter with having a miscarriage. Not sure I'd be the one to tweet this mess, but then again, there aren't really any "rules" to social networking. You can be as boring as typing that you're, well, bored. Or, you can type your feelings on abortion and miscarriage like this woman did. (Although, I'd venture to guess she has issues that go waaaay beyond the TMI threshold.

Here's the story.

An organ-tastic weekend of sorts

Whirlwind. That best describes this weekend. Friday night, Brent, Lucy and I headed north to Berrysburg for Urban Folk Day, which was Saturday. What is UFD? I'm not sure words will suffice. After all, isn't the saying a picture says a thousand words? Here are two. (apple butter on top, and scapple on the bottom)

I woke up at 3 a.m. Yes, 3 a.m. Why might you ask? To stir apple butter. To jar said apple butter. To slop out ham and bean, beef vegetable and chicken corn soup to ungrateful and sometimes snippy people. To set up the Grove for the UCC church Sally and Terry attend. It's the yearly fundraiser, and this year $5,400 was raised. Not too shabby. Despite some snottiness, I enjoyed lending a hand for the second year. (I think I'm setting a precedent here.) Plus, it's something my mother-in-law and I can share. So, yes, it's worth the 3 a.m. rousing.

As Brent headed to the New York/Canada line for salmon camp, the puppy and I trekked south to York. The best part was when my parents surprised me with a Sunday afternoon visit, after an anniversary night at Allenberry. I had the pleasure of showing off Morgan's plaque.

Gosh, do I miss that kid.

Beautifully bittersweet

Our little Morgan can finally rest in peace.

Memorial Walk for those who have lost children

Being in newspapers and all, I received this press release. I'm thinking about going, but I'm not sure I can do it alone. (Of course, I wouldn't be alone because Morgan would be with me, but I think you know what I mean.)

Anyway, Brent leaves for his yearly salmon fishing trip to Pulaski, N.Y., on Saturday night. He's there until Wednesday, so it looks like I'll be a single puppy mom for the foreseeable future. So, I might have to bite the bullet and brave the walk alone. I'm still mulling....

In the meantime, here's the press release:

Memorial Walk set for Oct. 11
York Hospital Bereavement Services is sponsoring a memorial walk and celebration with families whose babies have died during pregnancy or shortly after birth. The event is 2 p.m. Sunday at John C. Rudy County Park. An informal reception will follow the celebration. If you plan to attend, call 851-3467.

Ring, ring, it's Mother Nature

You know those television commercials, where there is this beautiful woman who is hanging out with this ridiculously hot guy (but not as hot as Brent, of course)? Anyway, this frazzled old lady with never-been-combed red hair dressed in green pops up into this hot-to-trot girl's dream carring a pink present (that is wrapped perfectly might I add).

Then, I-don't-believe-in-fun Mother Nature tries to give the scantily clad woman the gift of the month. However, it's no avail as the chickie refuses the deceiving present out of her hands, kicks open a treasure chest and says something along the lines of "I have Tampax Pearl, so I don't have to worry about leaks."
 

The commercial has been on a lot lately. It has nothing to do with the marketing or sales pitch. I swear I have a point.

It came today.
Aunt Flo stopped by for dinner.
I'm riding the crimson tide.

My body is slowly returning to normal after the nightmare four weeks and three days ago. It means we can start trying again. It means we'll both be edgier than ever. But it means we have another chance at raising a little baby Burkey.

Thank you, God, for today.

Knowing sometimes isn't better

An article I stumbled across the other day talked about how a doctor claims to have developed a miscarriage test for pregnant women.

Read it here.

The doctor said that if a woman is at risk for a miscarriage, he can proceed more carfully to try to save the baby. Of course, nothing is ever guaranteed. And  science has proven that miscarriages occur because of a genetic abnormality or poor implantment to the uterine wall. So, my question is, how is this going to help? Are we playing God again by trying to control the outcome? Would more women abort the pregnancy prematurely because a test shows that she could have a miscarriage?

No matter what, I wouldn't abort only because tests are wrong all of the time. As hard as it might be, nature has a way of taking care of things. Here's an example: OB-GYNs perform a test of the fetus at 16 weeks that shows whether the child will have cystic fibrosis, muscular dystrophy, mental retardation and a host of other problems. Of the four women I spoke to, three had positive results. And all of their children had and still don't have any of these problems. So, the moms were distraught for no reason.

Maybe I'm ignorant, but I'd rather wait until the child is born to know the road ahead of us. Knowing or think that you know isn't always the best thing.

That's the definition of iroooony

Saturday morning was a little tough -- Brent left at 3 a.m. for the first day of archery season, and Lucy and I were left to our own devices. I moped around for the better part of the morning, but headed to the dog park in the afternoon.

Turns out Lucy and Snacks are better friends that we had originally thought. (More on that later.)

The ironic part of this whole journey is that I spend 11 weeks hoping for no spotting. Now, I'm praying to get Aunt Flo, so we can start trying again. I guess humans can never be truly satisfied after all.

Staying inside the circle of trust

Dear God,
I trust in Your actions.
I trust in Your plan.
I trust that You take care of all of Your children.
I trust that You will never leave me.

And I pray that I never leave You.

An anniversary of sorts

Tomorrow marks the one-month point after Morgan died. Four weeks ago, our nightmare began. Twenty-eight days ago, I contemplated offing myself while staring at Brent through tear-stained eyes as he slept.

But it's also that same amount of time that I've kept moving one small step forward. And even though it felt like I stumbled three steps back, my friends, familiy and co-workers forced me to shuffle ahead. And, so three days after Brent and I celebrated our four-year (dating) anniversary over a glass of wine and seafood, we'll also be remembering our little angel in Heaven.

That brings me to another epiphany. It's amazing how many other people - both women and men -- have told me their stories. People with whom I wouldn't normally socialize or share the deepest secrets inside my soul. Yet, they were so inclined to share their grief-ridden stories of lost little ones with me. People with whom I wouldn't spend more than 10 minutes in a conversation. People with whom I wouldn't associate outside of the newspaper's sterile, blah-ness walls.

I'll tell you one thing that I do know now. I don't assume the worst about people. I give people the benefit of the doubt. Because you never truly know what scars they hide.  OK -- I'm at least trying!

This stigma stinks

I feel like a stigma is following me around lately. And I can't seem to shake the stink of it.

Miscarriage. It's an awful experience that about 20 percent of all pregnant women suffer. Think about that. One of every five women who conceive lose their child. Unbelievable. And supposedly most women miscarry at least once in their lives without even knowing. (Ever have a period that is unusually heavy? That's one of the many signs.)

And since everyone at work knows that Brent and I lost our first child together, every so often someone comes up to me with those pity-filled eyes and asks in a low voice, "how ya doin?" Don't get me wrong -- I know they care and are only asking because they worry. But I hate being treated with kid gloves.


Yes, some days are better than others. But I'll make it through. We'll make it through. Because we're Team Burkey, you see.

Of course, every time I see a baby stroller or a pregnant woman, I always wonder what I did wrong and why that person deserved a child instead of me. In reality, I should be happy for them. After all, who knows what that family has suffered, how many lost children, how long it took them to conceive.

I should count my blessings, look up to Heaven and thank God for little Morgan Ashland. Our little angel who has changed our lives forever.

Garbage disposals and hayrides: Breakfast of champions

Finally, a kitchen wish was granted this weekend. Brent installed a garbage disposal. Small perhaps, but what a difference that makes! I wouldn't say I'm a self-described cook by any stretch of the imagination -- unless toast, dippy eggs and mom's special pasta count.

A dabble here, a chop-chop there. Well, the right side of the double sink has been clogged for the better part of a month. Yes, disgusting. Although the worst part was when the dishwasher ran. The gobbley-gook backed up into the sink.

*shudder*

So, needless to say Brent got out the never-leave-his-side Leatherman tool (a glorified pocketknife) and went to town. Three hours, a lot of sweat, less swearing than I thought later, voila!

Then, on Sunday, we went up to Pap's farm in the middle of Pennsylvania. (Not quite, but it felt backwoods.) With mom's secret pasta in tow, we arrived to lots of homemade Pennsylvania Dutch cooking, lots of Pennsylvania Dutch accents and two hayrides. That's right, folks. Two.

Oh, did Lucy have a blast! Mud + rain + food on the ground = one dirty little girl

A quick explanation

Before I go any further, I want to explain the name of the blog and the URL first.
Brent and I came up with Team Burkey when we first were engaged and it stuck now that we're married.

Whenever the going gets rough or the seas calm, we look at each other and say "high five."
Stupid and corny, I know. But it kinda gives us that feeling of possessing something with each other that no one else has. Almost like that secret you shared with your best friend from middle school -- think back to all of those notes passed and all-nighters giggling in your room.

Anyway, the name "highfive" was taken, of course. So, "highfivable" it became. I guess it isn't rocket science after all.

Sometimes, it's easier to just sleep

We lost Morgan on Sept. 5 when I had a D&C at York Hospital. I thought I was around 11.5 weeks, but the ultrasound showed eight weeks and six days. So, that puts Morgan at eight weeks and six days old.

After the shock/horror/devastation wore off, now I'm left empty with a lifeless empty womb. It's amazing how wonderful those nearly nine weeks were, though. We planned and dreamed and cleaned and slept and ....

But now after the drama is over, the funeral is finished, we're just left alone. And the world keeps spinning on its axis as it always has.

And sometimes, it's easier just to sleep away the pain. And hope the sunshine brings a better tomorrow.

Welcome aboard

Team Burkey.

That consists of my husband, Brent, my 4-year-old beagle pup Lucy and our late child, Morgan Ashland.

It's been a rough year for our little family, but I welcome you aboard as we continue to embark on our miraculous journey.